Wednesday, September 3, 2014

The doors slid shut behind him, and the sounds of the
casino—the jangling slot machines, the piped-in music of nineties
superdivas—disappeared, muted by mahogany paneling and plush burgundy carpet.

The room was long, no chairs, with a desk at the end, tall
and narrow. A woman stood behind it, black hair hanging down her back and
catching the glow of the wall sconces.

She turned as he approached, and smiled. Jack paused, steps
from the desk. She was two women. Or rather, one woman with two heads. No, that
wasn't right either.

Each woman wore a blouse, ivory, sheer, with a lace collar
and three tiny buttons, the blouses stitched together at the chest. The women
faced each other, the distance of an eyelash between them. He could not see
below the desk. He felt uncomfortable wanting to.

"Mr. Gray?" said one.

Jack nodded. So as not to stare, he watched their hands; each
used a hand to rifle through a stack of unmarked envelopes, fingers dancing along
white creases, plucking one from the rest. The one who had spoken used her left
hand to open the envelope, and the other used her right hand to remove a key.

"Here you are," said the one on the right.
"Good luck, Mr. Gray."

He took the key with unease.

She gestured to a door on the left; her twin echoed the
gesture.

The door opened onto an elevator. Jack stepped inside, and
an attendant dressed in livery, as if he were a chauffeur, smiled and nodded.

"Mr. Gray," said the man, tanned and wrinkled
beneath a black cap.

The door shut on his last glimpse of the women.

"Beautiful," said Jack, not knowing what else to
say.

"Beautiful, yes. But only one heart." The man
shook his head. "Two people cannot have one heart."

The door opened.

"We're here?" said Jack. "I didn't feel it
move."

The man smiled. "You have your key?"

Jack nodded.

"Good luck, Mr. Gray."

He stepped into a narrow hallway, with another attendant,
this one dressed less elegantly: the bulge of guns beneath his cheap suit was
excessive, comic.

"That's a lot of firepower, considering you can only
fire one at a time," said Jack.

The man shook his head. "Two." He withdrew two of
the pieces, both hands turning the guns simultaneously.

Once. Now he'd much rather have a nice, medium-rare chateaubriand,
steaming on the plate, meant for two but all to himself.

The sight of her, however, dressed in cream-colored silk
behind a sleek, ebony desk, caused in him a pang, a longing for something warm,
and soft, and sweet on his tongue.

A chef in a white coat stood beside a small cart, a glass
bowl of chocolate before him. He unwrapped a stick of butter. She motioned to
the chef, and before he dropped the butter into the chocolate, he presented it
to her. She drew a finger across the top and tasted it.

The door shut behind him.

"Mr. Gray," said the woman. "Won't you sit?"

"You can call me Jack, Charlotte," he said, and
took the chair in front of the desk. "I promise, I won't think you're anything
but business."

"Why would you?" she said. Her gaze was cool; her
hair, not nearly as black as the women's in the lobby but still dark, dark like
the chocolate in the bowl, was tucked in a neat twist at the nape of her neck.
There was a tattoo there, he knew, an ostrich feather.

As she twisted her head to pull a file from a drawer, he saw
it then, except it wasn't a feather any longer, but two swords, one up, one
down.

She drew a single sheet of paper from the file. Without
looking at it, she said, "My. This is quite a bit of money you owe
us."

He shrugged. "I'll pay it back soon. Tables have been
bad, that's all."

"Are you saying that the casino has rigged tables? Or
that they are somehow sub-standard?"

"No, of course not. It's just... things haven't exactly
gone my way lately. But they will soon." They always do, he thought. The
coin always flips. "Your father let me run a house tab."

"We've extended your tab eight times this month
already. And my father no longer owns this casino."

Beside them, the chef lifted the spatula, inspecting the silky
fall of chocolate. Satisfied, he removed the bowl from the flame.

"A little more time, Charlotte. That's all I'm asking. Things
will change."

"When your luck changes?" She stared at the bowl.
"Chocolate, sugar, butter. It's not just the ingredients, you know. It's timing
and skill."

He swallowed, turning the key in his palm.

The chef cracked two eggs, and added a sprinkle of salt. He
stirred and poured the batter into a silver pan. The bowl scraped clean, he set
it down and took up the pan, presenting it to Jack.

"Your key," she said.

"We used to have crepes every morning, and scones.
Lemon, blueberry... And your cakes... Caramel. Coconut..."

He implored her with his eyes, willing her to remember when
they'd been young, willing to her to recall nights he'd come to her, flush with
his winnings, and her apartment smelling like cinnamon, her skin tasting like
vanilla.

The elevator attendant's words came to him: Two people cannot have one heart.

He dropped the key atop the batter. It sank, vanishing from
view.

The chef took the pan with Jack's cake to a door that slid
open, revealing a room with an oven at the center, and all around, on every
wall, shelves, and those shelves laden with cakes.